


leave the sinking ship behind

by TardisIsTheOnlyWayToTravel



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Aliens, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cap2 spoilers, Chitauri invasion, Cryogenics, Gen, The Winter Soldier - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-16
Updated: 2014-04-16
Packaged: 2018-01-19 14:33:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1473292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TardisIsTheOnlyWayToTravel/pseuds/TardisIsTheOnlyWayToTravel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He wakes when the cryostasis system fails, defrosting slowly in an underground bunker running on emergency power. There is still frost on his eyelashes when he wakes, shivering and disoriented, and his skin is icy cold. </p>
<p>[Spoilers for Captain America: Winter Soldier]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Loosely inspired by the magnificent _Brooklyn, Brooklyn, Take Me In_ by victoria_p (musesfool).

**leave the sinking ship behind**

He wakes when the cryostasis system fails, defrosting slowly in an underground bunker running on emergency power. There is still frost on his eyelashes when he wakes, shivering and disoriented, and his skin is icy cold. Outside the cryostasis chamber everything is dark but for the emergency lighting, dim and unilluminating. There is no one there waiting for him, ready to give him a mission. There is no one at all: dust covers everything in the bunker, and he is alone in the dark.

He’s still cold, cold enough that he’s shivering uncontrollably, despite his programmed resistance to hardship of all kinds: his body is signalling that if he doesn’t meet its needs soon, it will begin to shut down. He finds clothing supplies in a cupboard – uniforms with an eight-limbed skull-like logo on the breast – and puts one on. Almost immediately his body begins to warm, and slowly the urgent signal his body is sending him dies away as the chill of the cryostasis chamber recedes. His considers the pangs in his stomach, and goes searching for food. This is harder: eventually, however, he finds what appears to have once been a mess hall, with kitchens coming off it, and in the cupboards he finds tinned food with yellowing labels and oxidisation marks on the metal.

He opens a can anyway, and eats the soup inside. It has a metallic tang and tastes funny, but he knows that the chances to eat are few and far between, and swallows it down anyway. The taste means nothing to him, apart from the possibility of food poisoning, and that’s not a concern: he doesn’t get sick, or ever falter. After one can of soup he still feels the cramp in his stomach that means hunger, and eats two more. After that the pain stops, and he turns his thoughts to more important matters.

He has no mission, no orders and no one to give them. He’s never been in that situation before. In the past, he remembers hazily, there were always people waiting for him, ready to check his vitals and arm, and others there to brief him on his latest mission. But this time there was no one: only a dying cryostasis system and an abandoned bunker. All the evidence suggests that somehow, he has been forgotten, left to gather dust like everything else here. He isn’t sure what to do about that. Nothing in his programming has prepared him for such a contingency.

He turns his attention to his cybernetic arm instead. He runs through a set of exercises designed to check that everything is in order, flexing his fingers and making careful, memorised movements. The arm moves smoothly, with barely a sound, and he is satisfied that it does not require maintenance at this time. The next thing he requires is weaponry, and so he searches the bunker, and finds the armoury easily enough. The guns and ammunition are familiar to him, fitting into his hands as though they belong there. The knives are just as easy to handle. Other weapons are strange and spark no recognition, and so he leaves them behind, only taking what he knows. It feels right to be armed, and the knowledge that he is brings a sense of vague satisfaction with it.

But he still has no orders, no one to report to, and the lack of them is pounding in his head, over and over. _What is my mission, what is my mission_ repeats in his brain until he’s almost dizzy with it, but he has no answer to that question.

“I have no mission,” he says aloud, but it does not silence the inner voice. It continues to chant its question, and he does not know what to do.

In the end, still feeling weak and disoriented after his unaccustomed manner of exiting cryostasis and with nothing else to do, he finds himself a defensible corner from where he can see all available exit and entry points, closes his eyes, and sleeps for the first time in decades.

* * *

He wakes gasping, vivid images in his mind, but almost as soon as he is awake they are gone, leaving behind only indistinct impressions, of emotional and sensory detail he cannot remember.

He checks the bunker again, but there is still no one there, and the air is beginning to taste thin and stale. He needs to leave, he realises, mission or not. Part of him protests the idea, tells him to remain where he is until he is given orders; but he had been programmed to survive in all conditions, and his survival directive overrides the voice in his head. He gathers up his weapons, checks the bunker one last time (the crysostasis system is well and truly dead, and holds no answers for him) and climbs the ladder to the circular hatch in the ceiling. He turns it, slowly at first: the metal squeaks in protest, but the hatch slowly opens.

He doesn’t know what lies outside, or how long it has been since he was last operational. But his survival directive compels him. He climbs through the hatch, with no idea of where to go or what to do next, only the awareness that he must leave, or die.

He leaves the bunker behind. The year is 2011.

* * *

It takes him months to adjust.

The world has changed again since he last saw it, brighter and faster and more colourful, strange in ways that he instinctively knows aren’t from the holes in his memory, but simply the passing of time.

For the first few days he lives on the streets, with no goals or objectives, lost and directionless without a mission to guide him. Only his survival directive propels him onwards, spurring him to steal food to eat and clothing to blend in and find somewhere to sleep at night. The first time it rains he’s startled, turning his face up to the sky, and it takes him a minute or so to realise that he should find somewhere sheltered from the weather. The smell of rain and smoke fills his nose, and for a moment he feels – 

he does not know what he feels.

He sleeps, now – not every night, but often. Finds somewhere he can lie down and close his eyes without being bothered, closes his eyes and lets himself slip away. It’s like going into cryostasis, but gentler, lulling him slowly into unawareness instead of taking him screaming and gasping for breath. Sometimes he wakes and finds his face wet with tears, a nameless sense of loss running through him, bone-deep: other times he wakes feeling angry, so _very, very angry_ that it’s all he can do not to yell his rage to the heavens, to break everything around him. But the reasons _why_ never linger with him beyond his time asleep; always, they leave him within moments of waking, and it drives him crazy.

The welter of emotions is uncontrollable within weeks. Without a mission, without a directive besides survival he falls apart, torn from within by impulses and desires he does not understand. He finds himself overtaken by a storm of emotions, and suddenly everything he does is nuanced with meaning. Pain and fury and confusion and a sense of _absence_ overlay everything, and he doesn’t understand why. He existed before without this overlay, nothing but a well-oiled machine, and part of him wishes he could exist without this bewildering inner conflict. But another part of him, small and unsure, revels in it – delights in every sensation that makes it through without filtering, feels _alive_ at the sense of unbridled emotion.

Somehow, over time, he learns to restrain and navigate the maelstrom without dimming or ignoring what he feels. Living in the world becomes easier, more bearable: his thoughts start to come together with coherency, their rigid focus on the mission gone; fluidity and mental freedom are left in its place.

He decides one day to leave the town he’s found himself in. He steals himself some clean clothes, and then hotwires a car. He ignores the newer, sleeker cars, choosing instead an old box of a car that’s at least thirty years old. He understands how it works, and its clunky familiarity is reassuring. The new cars all remind him of his arm, all smooth lines and seamless exterior, their dashboard full of buttons and tiny screens. He likes the dashboard of the old car better, free of all the modern encumbrances.

There’s a tape in the cassette player, and he leaves town to someone singing about the rising wind and going up around the bend, and the sound of an electric guitar playing in his ears.

* * *

He parks the car by a New York sidewalk, locking it behind him and taking the keys with him. He won’t go back to it – too much of a chance it could be reported stolen – but he might as well make sure that no one else can steal it.

There’s a safe-house he remembers vaguely; an apartment in the city. The neighbourhood has gotten poorer since he was last here (however long ago that was), gotten poorer and fallen into disrepair, and when he arrives at the apartment building he finds its been condemned. He goes in anyway.

The apartment has been stripped of all furnishings, and it’s bare and empty in the late afternoon light. This doesn’t faze him; he knows exactly where to plunge his metal arm through the plaster, what section of the wall to pull free to expose the hidden closet. Inside is a bag full of money, and a box filled with passports and papers: some of them have his face on them, and he gathers those together.

There’s a collection of names across the different passports, none of them recognisable. But the American passport gives his name as _James,_ and something sparks in his memory, something small, but weighty. He leaves the other passports, but takes the American one with him. The rest of the passports go back in the box. He rifles through to make sure that he hasn’t missed anything important, ignores the passports belonging to a red-haired woman with eyes that speak to him, and decides that he needs nothing besides his passport and the bag of cash. He leaves the foreign currency behind: takes only the American dollars, easy to use without inviting questions.

Before he leaves, he hesitates by the bathroom. There’s a mirror set into the wall inside the bathroom, and he looks at his own reflection. His hair is long and lank, in need of a cut and a good wash – actually, he thinks, looking at his own grubby face, all of him could do with a wash, if the pipes are still working. His face is the same as he remembers, but different: the blank expression is gone, replaced by something more nuanced, and his own eyes stare back at him, serious and intense. Something rises up in his chest, some nameless emotion he can’t decipher, but one he doesn’t object to.

He takes one last glance at the mirror, before he turns and leaves the apartment altogether. His reflection smiles faintly back at him. He decides that it’s a good thing.

* * *

With his bag of cash he rents an apartment, a small, dingy place that isn’t worth the money he’s paying for it. He pays anyway, because the landlord isn’t the kind of guy who asks questions as long as he gets his dough. The first thing he does is wander down to the nearest store for soap, shampoo, and a pair of scissors. He stops on the way back at a clothing store, and buys a couple of changes of clothes to take back with him.

Back at the apartment he showers for the first time in… he can’t even remember how long it’s been. He soaps his body and shampoos his hair, scrubs until he’s red and clean. Afterwards he stands in front of the mirror as the water dries on his skin, and cuts his hair until it’s level with his jaw. After that, he changes into some of the clean clothes he bought earlier, ignoring the new, chemical smell of them and the itch at his skin, and finds the nearest barbershop. 

He walks out again with short hair, and a reflection that pings his memory. He smiles at his own reflection in shop windows, and the expression comes out arrogant and cocky. His amusement at that fact only makes him smile all the more, his facial muscles stretching in unaccustomed ways. It’s a pleasant feeling.

The next day he applies for a job at a small café, wearing a long-sleeved jacket that covers his metal arm and a pair of gloves. He puts on his best earnest look and sad eyes – not at all difficult – until the owner feels sorry for him. He ends the day with a job, starting tomorrow morning, and leaves promising to be on time bright and early.

He’s never worked in a café before, as far as he can recall, but he picks it up fast, learns how to deal with the customers and how to process the orders. He even learns how to use the new-fangled coffee machine, complicated though it is. Time passes, and he realised that he’s content. The realisation startles him: the idea of being content is foreign and strange, something that belongs to other people.

“So, _James_ ,” says Alisha, who works in the café with him. “Got a last name to go with that?”

He decides to take a chance.

“Not really,” he admits. “My memory only goes back the last few months.”

His words pique her interest, and he immediately regrets telling her as much as he has.

“Were you in an accident or something?” she asks, genuine concern mixing with unsympathetic curiosity.

“Something like that,” he says, with an uncertain smile.

Alisha doesn’t press, despite the fact that she clearly wants to, and he decides that he likes her all the better for it.

All in all, he likes his new job, and the people he works with, which is why it’s such a pain in the ass when the aliens come.

* * *

James is at work when the aliens attack. People run screaming from the café as monstrous creatures crash through it, but James doesn’t pause. In one fluid movement, he picks up a knife from the kitchen and throws it. The knife embeds itself in an alien creature’s eye and it falls, but James is already grabbing another knife and running.

“Come on!” He grabs Alisha’s hand as he goes past, dragging her along with him. She’s been nice to him, these past few months, and he finds that he doesn’t want to see her hurt.

“Oh my God!” she screams in his ear, but James doesn’t let it distract him. He heads for the bank across the street, his mind slipping into an old mindset as he assesses entries and exists and the defensibility of their position. Inside, people are crowding together as tightly as a school of fish, panicked and afraid.

Changing his grip on the knife he’s holding, James frees up his fingertips so that he can slide the glove off his cybernetic hand. He knows a fight is coming, and his fingers will grip and move more easily without the hindrance of the glove. Alisha doesn’t notice his metal hand, too busy clutching as James other arm in shock, staring fearfully at the bank doors.

The group of people isn’t there long before a pack of aliens appears in the doorway, weapons raised ready to fire. James studies them with cold eyes. They’re armoured in appearance, with no obvious weaknesses besides the tiny eyes. Possibly the junction of head and neck is a weak spot, as in humans, but he can’t tell without a closer look.

The aliens herd everyone together, and James pulls free of Alisha’s grip, closing his eyes and locking away every scrap of emotion. It’s the Winter Soldier who opens his eyes, and looks up at the enemy with a new objective.

The aliens don’t expect it when he leaps forward, grabs the edge of the second-floor railing with his cybernetic arm and throws himself over it towards them. Even as they raise their weapons he stabs the first one in the eye, and is ducking and whirling before they can get a fix on him.

The second alien he stabs in the ear, and it’s at that point that a familiar shield whizzes through the air, clocks the third alien in the head and bounces off in another direction, as the Winter Soldier stabs a fourth alien in the throat.

A man in a ridiculous red, white and blue costume is fighting yet another alien when he turns. As he watches it manages to grab him from behind and tries to dig out his eyes, but only succeeds in pulling off the cowl he wears. A handsome face and blonde hair are revealed, and for a shocked burst of emotion James is in control, not the Soldier, because dammit _he knows that face._

Memory hits him like a truck, rushing forward in an inescapable wave, like it’s just been waiting for the right trigger all this time. James – _Bucky_ – thinks of the dreams he’s been having all this time, the strange flickers of memory,  and wonders what the hell is going on. The Winter Soldier smoothly takes back control just as Captain America – _Steve_ , Bucky thinks, in mingled incredulity and joy – flips backwards over the alien’s head. The Winter Soldier helpfully throws his knife and nails it in the throat, leaving Captain America free to deal with the remaining alien.

It throws something blue and bright at him and the Captain leaps, bringing up the shield he holds to cover himself in mid-air, and there’s an explosion which blows the Winter Soldier backwards. His head rings, but he pulls himself to his feet and approaches the alien where it’s scrabbling to its feet. He leaps on it’s back, clinging with his human hand while with the other he grabs and twists, and hears a sickening crack as its neck snaps.

There’s no sign of Steve, and Bucky runs to the smashed window, looks out to see his friend pulling himself free from a severely dented car that wasn’t designed to withstand the impact of a freefalling supersoldier. Bucky thinks _to hell with it,_ and leaps out the window.

He regrets this slightly as his feet hit the concrete with jarring force, but only a little. He runs over to where Steve is straightening up with slow, careful movements that speak of pain, and stops just as Steve looks up.

For a moment Steve just stares at him, before his face transforms.

“ _Bucky?_ ” he chokes out, and Bucky throws his arms around Steve, unable to help himself.

“Yeah, pal,” he says, and realises he’s crying, crying like a little baby, but that’s okay, because he’s not the only one. “It’s me.”

“ _How?_ ” Steve demands, and Bucky throws his head back and laughs.

“That’s a long story I don’t think we have time for, but goddamn, it’s good to see you. How the hell are you alive?”

“I can ask you the same question,” says Steve, and his eyes come to rest on Bucky’s metal hand. “What –”

“It’s a long story,” Bucky repeats. He grins at Steve, and Steve grins helplessly back, brighter than the sun.

Something blasts by overhead, and Bucky sees in Steve’s eyes the moment that he’s recalled to the urgency of the current situation.

“Buck–” he begins, his eyes assessing the scene around them, and Bucky nods.

“I’ve got your back, Steve,” he says, before Steve can say anything else. “Let’s take these bastards down.”

Steve nods, and together, they turn to face the invading horde, both of them ready to kick some alien ass.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**CODA**

“Holy shit,” says Iron Man, staring at Bucky. “You’re James Barnes.”

“Observant of you.” says Bucky. Sooner or later he’s going to have explain, of course, but he doesn’t feel like it now, and he doesn’t owe Stark anything. Steve, yes, but Stark, no. Stark squints at his arm.

“Is that – do you have a cybernetic arm?”

“Yep,” says Bucky briefly.

“Can I have a look at that?”

“Nope,” said Bucky just as briefly.

“No, really,” says Stark, “I’m pretty sure–”

“He said no,” says Steve, suddenly looming, which is unnecessary, but nice of him all the same. Bucky sends him a look, and glances back at Stark.

“Thing is, right now it’s working just fine,” he tells the other man, “and I spent too much time at the mercy of curious bastards to let anyone near it. But I tell you what, buy me a beer and I’ll tell you how it works.”

“Deal,” says Stark at once. “But first –”

“Loki,” Steve finishes grimly.

* * *

While Steve and the others are off dealing with the megalomaniacal supervillain who apparently started the invasion, Bucky heads off to the shawarma place Stark was talking about. He’d heard Steve talking to someone named ‘Widow’ during the big fight, and Bucky can put two and two together. He refused to head up with Steve and the others to Stark Tower, despite Steve’s pleading look: if he’s going to meet Natalia again it’s going to be on his own terms, preferably without any supervillains ready to exploit the tension. Bucky remembers Black Widow: back when he’d still belonged to the Red Room, him and her had been as close as anyone there ever got. But times have changed, and Natalia’s apparently working for someone else these days, and things could end badly. Ordering shawarma for everyone and waiting to meet Natalia in a more neutral setting sounds like a much better idea than meeting her at Stark Tower.

The staff of the shawarma joint take some sweet-talking before they agree to get to work, but Bucky gives them a speech about heroes and giving back, and finishes up by adding that Tony Stark will be footing the bill and he’s a pretty generous tipper. That does the trick. By the time Steve and Stark walk in, Bucky is munching on some shawarma, and the table he’s sitting at is covered with food.

Steve’s face immediately lights up at  the sight of him, and Bucky grins back as Steve takes the chair next to his.

In the doorway Black Widow stops short as she sees him, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with Steve, and Bucky gives her a cocky grin. He’s aware that it’s a good way to end up with a blade though his brain, if Natalia’s skills have improved any since he last saw her, but he’s in too good a mood to care.

“Captain,” says Natalia urgently, “you need to get away from him–”

“Good to see you too, Natashenka,” Bucky drawls, as Steve gives her an earnestly puzzled look. “Relax. Me and Steve are old pals, ain’t we, Stevie?”

Steve goes pink at being called Stevie, and goes “ _Bucky_ ,” in a reproving voice, although the effect is ruined by the disbelieving grin he can’t quite shake.

“Pals,” Bucky repeats to Natalia, and takes another bite of shawarma. “I admit, I’m not the guy Steve knew back in Brooklyn anymore, but that ain’t stopping me from having his back. So why don’t we all sit down and eat the food these fine folks have prepared for us?”

Natalia gives him a long, assessing look full of suspicion, but sits down at the opposite side of the table from Bucky. Bucky just grins, and bumps his shoulder against Steve’s companionably. Steve does the same back.

Natalia narrows her eyes. Bucky smirks.


End file.
